


Turbidity

by manhattan



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: All Magic Comes With a Price, Angst, Dissociative Identity Disorder, Gen, Hawke Needs a Hug, Identity Issues, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mental Health Issues, The Mirror of Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:03:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3339608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manhattan/pseuds/manhattan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t stare <i>too</i> intently at that,” warns Xenon, the Antiquarian, from his unmoved throne. After managing a choking, wheezing laugh, he adds: “On second thought," he chuckles, dark and twisted like the mirror, "please do.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Turbidity

**Author's Note:**

> i tried posting this once before and somehow failed??? lmao anyway heres attempt number two

Xenon was probably saying something like, “don’t _manhandle_ the urchin,” but Hawke did not – could not – register a word. Her eyes were paused on another’s, just as blue and crisp, and she frowned. A dark, slanted thing was looking back at her, the tendrils of wood snaking around the glass in a way that left her uneasy. Perhaps just anxious. _Whatever_ , she thought, rolling her eyes – had this mirror always been here?

She stopped meandering around the artifacts and cocked a hip as she stared.

Fenris, in the back, was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as he was wont to do whenever faced with magic. Hawke could see him, reflected in the cracks in the glass; he had his back to the door, his shoulders straight and uncomfortable like the rest of him. For a second, she wondered why she'd brought him along – it  _had_  been a long day, and she was tired and irritable, and the Black Emporium wasn't exactly on the way home. But she’d needed good prices and high quality stuff, and Xenon was as weird as he was generous. Fenris could sulk all he wanted, she thought, angry, her hand darting out to touch the mirror, to hide away his face.

Her fingers slid across nothing, however; Fenris' reflection disappeared anyway, so fast and  _so_  beautifully Hawke had to blink, had to think back to make sure she'd seen him there, of course she had, what the _hell_ -

"Hawke?" Varric called, leaning against the closest column like the hero of one of his books. She blinked again, looked away from the mirror, and found his eyes on her. Too sharp, Varric was; it was one of the reasons why Hawke liked him so much. In that moment, though, it was just annoying, how easily he saw through her best poker faces. She let her hand fall to her hip, and very pointedly ignored the mirror, turning to him.

"Right, sorry," she replied, cracking his favorite naughty smile as she went on browsing _._

* * *

“Ah,” said Xenon, perched upon his chair as usual. Hawke closed the door behind her; she was alone today, still fresh off a cold, unsatisfying shower and a hasty breakfast. Carver had given her an odd look, slightly suspicious, but he hadn’t commented. “It’s unusual to see you so early in the day. Or at all,” he added, coughing.

Hawke gave him a smile.

“There’s something I want to know – what’s the story behind the mirror?” she shot, grinning and folding her arms. A posture as expectant as it was threatening. Xenon would know she wouldn’t dare attack, not while his golem stood tall and menacing behind her, but Hawke could at least tease a little.

The Antiquarian dissolved in dry coughs of laughter. Pleased and evil and dark. She grinned harder in reply.

“It allows you to,” a pause, contemplative, like a wolf trying to mask its scent, “change.”

“Change?” Hawke returned, one sharp eyebrow raised, like the hare noticing a trap. The ends of her bangs, soothing and familiar, tickled her forehead when she cocked her head. “How so? Like your appearance? Or is it something else, something – shall we say, _darker_? One can never know with you.” An affectionate barb, as if she was a trickster child and Xenon her suffering parent. The thought made her want to heave, and her hand closed around the closest banister as she took a calming breath. She went for the more serious route, feeling a little lost: “And why, pray tell, does it affect me so?”

Xenon breathed loudly while he thought. Hawke turned to the mirror’s skeleton, poked at the gnarled wood, then at the place where the glass should’ve been. The air _was_ cooler there, like there was a draft, or a winter’s grasp spell. She rubbed her fingertips together, felt them prickle.

“I do not know,” he admitted, reluctance dripping out of his every desiccated pore. “The Mirror of Transformation has … _seen …_ many people, but none of them as interesting as you.”

She stopped touching it, recoiling as though the mirror would bite her, eat her up, spit out her bones. Her reflection was still smiling, her mouth soft, her eyes bright, her hands wrapped around the pommel of a sword. Hawke took a step back, chilled to the core, and couldn’t help but to reach for her staff, resting securely against her shoulders. Hawke took another step back, and watched her reflection disappear into the dark. Her sigh of relief was loud enough that the Antiquarian would hear.

“Curious,” rasped Xenon, sounding amused, “isn’t it?”

 _No_ , Hawke thought, her stomach cold. _Maker, please, no_ , Hawke thought, all the way home, horrified and unsure.

* * *

Sundermount was quietest at sundown, the brief interval between daylight Tal-Vashoth and nighttime bandits. Hawke released her hold on her defensive spells with a sigh, the weight lifting like a leaf in the wind.

“You are so buying me a round of drinks,” Isabella laughed, sitting open-legged on top of a corpse. They’d been betting over who’d stacked the most kills – Isabella was only too good at springing dares and bets, and Fenris was only too bad at knowing when to decline them. In the end, it didn’t matter – they would bicker, Isabella would claim victory, and Fenris would not pay any rounds of drinks whatsoever.

Hawke averted her gaze from the body pile, from Isabella’s underwear. Her skin was unscarred, smooth, unlike her victims’. What did it feel like to cut through flesh instead of just disintegrating it? Hawke always felt drained when it was over, out of mana, out of life. Did warriors and rogues feel that way, too? Or was it only a physical feeling, one they could sleep off? Hawke had always been proud of her magic, of the ease with which she grasped arcane knowledge, but lately it felt … it felt so –

“You continue to delude yourself,” replied Fenris, hardly bothered by the blood flecked across his face. A calloused palm went up to wipe at his eyes anyway. Hawke’s hands were not smooth, but a staff would never scar the way pommels and steel grips did. “For once, I do not understand how you favor that decrepit tavern so much. The quality of the—“

“The _quality?_ You think I care for that?” Isabella scoffed, wide-eyed. “It gets me drunk, and sometimes that’s all a girl needs in life,” she went on, rolling her eyes with a sour expression. “Excuse _me_ if _my_ rightfully stolen mansion doesn’t have a cellar full of expensive booze.”

“But, Isabella, you don’t have a mansion. You live in the Hanged Man, remember?” Merrill pointed out, and now it was Fenris who was rolling his eyes. Hawke thought of two jokes, three innuendos, but kept spitefully quiet until they reached the Dalish camp, too focused on the shape of her fingers, on the warmth of her palm.

* * *

“I’m going to the Circle, and I'll be fine, I _swear,”_ Bethany was saying, her lips dark, her eyes pale. All of her, all wrong. Hawke felt so helpless. “Take care of mother for me, sis—“

Hawke woke up sweating, her heart beating, her sheets singed and unsalvageable. Carver made fun of her the following day, and she let him, too busy wondering when he’d gotten the coin and the time for a haircut.

* * *

“So, humor me,” she called, letting the door close behind her as she strode. Xenon made a startled noise, as if he’d been asleep and she’d awakened him. Hawke felt unapologetic, even briefly angry, and so walked around his chair and in the mirror’s direction. “If I wanted brown hair, or a larger nose, or a – “

“It is _very_ early,” Xenon hissed, and she imagined him narrowing his blind, white eyes at her. The mirror was dark again today, without a reflection. She waved at it, expecting something and feeling foolish once there was no reaction. “ _Must_ you pelt me with your … questioning?”

“It’s not early at all,” she spat. If Leandra had heard, she would’ve been horrified. “I think it’s _just_ the right time for you to tell me what this blighted mirror’s done to me.”

He laughed, despite the contempt in his booming voice. Hawke forced herself to remain, instead of growling under her breath and sliding a knife across Xenon’s inarticulate throat. The mirror remained dark; she reached out for it, imagined herself with longer hair, and felt the soft brush of tresses when she cocked her head.

“A mirror can only reflect,” he replied eventually, wheezing. “Remember that, serah. Or at least _try_ to.”

Hawke stood still for minutes, staring into the darkness. With a final look over her shoulder, she left, slamming the door on her way out.

* * *

_If Xenon could have_ , she thought afterwards, bitter and restless and without really knowing why, _he would’ve smirked in triumph_. _He would’ve._

* * *

“Okay, look,” said Varric, one day, like she knew he would, “Hawke, did something—”

“I know, okay,” Hawke cut in, distracted. Varric was frowning at her, his eyes still and focused. “Varric, you don’t have to worry,” she began, and, by the time she knew how she would finish, she found herself by the counter, downing a pint of lukewarm beer. Varric was flushed already, grinning from ear to ear, but Hawke was piss drunk, too, and she laughed along with him, raw and loud and barbaric.

“It’s been a while since we’ve done this,” she said, unsure.

“Yeah,” Varric said, a fond smile curling his mouth, “I missed it. It’s like we’re always busy nowadays.”

“Get a room, you two,” Isabella cut in, making a disgusted noise. Hawke’s eyes slid over to her, surprised, but Varric was too drunk to notice (and Isabella too invested in the teasing). “It’s literally just, you know, upstairs, so what’s stopping you?”

“Bianca,” Varric replied, in a whisper, like his crossbow wouldn’t be able to hear. Hawke found it funny the first two times, hilarious the third; now she was unsurprised and – frankly – bored at his evasion, at how he spoke in half-truths and half-memories. Plus, her glass was almost empty. “She can pack a punch, you know. I’d rather not test her.”

“Pssh,” Isabella scoffed, rolling her eyes. Hawke’s head went with them, spinning. She set the glass down, hard enough that Corff gave her a warning look. Hawke hiked her chin in a come-on, feeling bold and invulnerable, _daring_ him to act on his unspoken threat. The bartender was the first to look away.

Anders, half-man, half-spirit, was the last, those hazel eyes slotting into hers when he set down his mug of ale. Hawke looked away with a sneer, threw her hair across her shoulder and hated herself for remembering how much softer Bethany’s had been. A crack ran down the length of her glass then, nicking her hand.

“Shit,” she hissed, dropping it; it shattered into pieces on the floor, taking the conversation with it. Her palm was red – dripping, even, and Hawke only remembered to heal herself when Anders did it for her. _Shit_ , she thought, again, closing her eyes and excusing herself from the Hanged Man.

* * *

“I’ll kill him,” she said, and it was a promise. Varric was looking at her like he didn’t recognize her, his horrified gaze a clear sign that she’d gone too far. Hawke had to stifle a scoff at that; she’d murdered so many people, so many creatures, and he only paused when she threatened his brother?

At least Carver was here, she thought, turning back to look at him and – finding Fenris’ green eyes instead.

* * *

“A Templar,” was the only thing she could say, shocked into politeness for once. Carver did not have the decency to look ashamed, instead holding her gaze like he held his posture. A _Templar_ , she thought, disgusted. Her magic was so loud, ready to burst, and Hawke reached for her staff, Carver for his sword. As if he could even _dream_ of touching her, Hawke thought, and wanted to laugh in his face. Wanted to elbow him in the face, stun him first, then a side-step to the right—

“Carver, please!” Leandra exclaimed then, setting herself between the two of them. Her palm was warm where it pushed Hawke away, and Hawke didn’t even think, just reached down and plucked it off as she took another step. Her fingers tightened around her weapon.

Carver’s face was pale now, or at least paler, god, all the Hawkes were so pale it hurt –

“Marian!” Leandra pleaded, again, but this time thought better than to walk into the tension.

The two of them stopped on their tracks, staring at their mother. _I can barely recognize her_ , Hawke realized, too used to seeing Leandra dressed in squalor instead of silks, wilting away in the darkness of Lowtown instead of basking in Hightown’s light. When had they - ? This new house felt strange, too large for just the four – the three – the _two_ of them, _now_ –

“ _Who_ the _fuck_ is Marian?” Hawke shouted, angry and breaking like a dam, a dagger sliding into her palm like a glove. The handle was well-worn; Hawke knew the blade so intimately she could've almost cried at the thought using anything else. Carver and Leandra were silent, or at least Hawke thought so; she wasn't sure. The Amell Estate swallowed her voice though, echoed it for seconds, hours, the rest of her miserable life. 

* * *

Leandra’s eyes were a warm shade of brown, like Carver’s, like Bethany’s. Malcom’s had been a glacial blue, like Marian’s.

Hawke wasn’t sure what color hers were, anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> The Mirror of Transformation is an insidious and twisted device. When you alter your appearance with the device it doesn't just change who you are, but it changes who you were and will be in the future. It selects from one of the infinite possible universes where you were brought up with a different lineage and twists that thread of history into the currently experienced reality. The ripples of this action affect your family and other people's memory of your appearance as well.  
>  
> 
> \-- from the Wiki


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